


Folie a Deux

by Excelsior10



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, One-Shot, PTSD, S3, Sacrilege and Blasphemy, mentions of drugs and sex and violence, moral struggle(TM), of course lmao, oh also LANGUAGE but is there a single peaky fic without it?, tommy's mental health or lack thereof, would it even BE a peaky fic without it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24220258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Excelsior10/pseuds/Excelsior10
Summary: So, if you want the truth, here it is: she was right about him.
Relationships: Tatiana Petrovna/Tommy Shelby
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	Folie a Deux

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weary_ana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weary_ana/gifts).



> I rewatched s3 and then wrote this in about ten minutes and only read through it like once. good luck lmao  
> for weary_ana, who is right. Tatiana is kind of a dope bitch.

The real problem was, he always knew the truth. He knew the plan was doomed to fail, he knew when people were lying to him, he knew that God was a figment made up by the imaginations of men who didn’t have the balls to face the terrifying unknown, a comforting lie. Most of the things people told themselves were just comforting lies. But Tommy Shelby knew the truth about everything, he thought, except maybe himself. And maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he understood why people wrapped themselves in their shrouds of ignorance, _Knowledge is power,_ they said, he told them, _Knowledge is pain._ Maybe he liked it, a little, that he had _earned_ it all through spilled blood, maybe it repulsed him, maybe he admitted to himself that none of it would be quite so satisfying if it wasn’t quite so wrong. If he had been the son of a wealthy politician, if women only wanted him because he was fit and not because of the way other men looked at him, with fear on their faces. The forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest, and he was the snake from Eden, exchanging apples for souls, blood for power. 

So, if you want the truth, here it is: she was right about him. Well, you said you wanted the truth, so there it was. With her forked tongue dripping vodka, she damned him, his soul on the libra scale, swimming in the limbo, swimming in the opium and sex and cocaine. 

“I know your weakness, Tommy,” she had said, her whisper fading, draping in, over itself, _I know the truth,_ she had panted into his ear. “It’s freedom.” 

Snakes with skin like emeralds writhed and curled, a mass of them, dripping red blood from snow white fangs, 

“Madness,” the duchess said, she had asked him, while he was inside her, “ _Do you believe in magic?”_ he had told her no, she had hissed, “ _Do you believe in hell?”_

“Killing,” she sang, sliding against him, her face wet with tears. Tommy felt the cold steel against his finger, the quick pull of the trigger, the rush-rush-rush-, 

  
  


He woke, sweating, rolling instinctually to standing. “On your feet, soldier!” barked a hazy, half-formed memory in the distance of his mind, the room came slowly into view. The bedroom, the master suite. 

_“Come,”_ she had said, _“Let a duchess show you something.”_

Tatiana was awake, watching him. Her dark makeup was smeared, but it only served to make her beauty more wild. 

“Do you always sleep so little?” she snapped, and Tommy let out a shaky breath, grounding himself, his vision was swaying like a drifting boat. 

“I’ll go to another room,” Tommy replied, flatly, standing, swaying, swaying. Tatiana huffed delicately from behind him. 

“If we’re going to be awake, we might find ways to entertain ourselves, no?” she asked, patting the mattress. Things sharpened a bit. Tommy sat back down. Sighed. 

“You ready for another round, eh?” he asked, wanting his cigarettes, contenting himself with running a hand through his hair. Emerald snakes with pearl fangs dripping ruby blood. Tatiana _tsked._

“I must admit, Mr. Shelby,” she said, she always called him that, the taunting tone irritated him but made his cock hard, so he let her. “You are very impressive.” 

“Maybe you just had low expectations,” Tommy evaded, sitting back on the bed, which sank under his weight, nudging her towards him. She did not pull away, a sly smile on her lips. 

“No,” she said, delicately. She had no issue with the word, it was one of her favorites, she rolled it around her mouth like candy. “I knew that you were chosen for a reason.”

 _You’re chosen,_ the voices floated back, overlapping. _Chosen._ Chosen. Chosen to kill. _I know the truth,_ she whispered, _we know the truth. Chosen_ to fuck and kill and fuck and kill. Funny how “ _You’ve been chosen_ ” sounded like “ _This is all you’re good for now, and you know it, and we know it. We know the truth_ ,” all the voices voices voices told him, reminding him, never letting him forget. Tommy sighed, shut his eyes. _Fuck ‘em all,_ he thought, he fought, _fuck you all._ They could use him if they wanted. He would use them back. Everything in the world was either war or fucking, anyway, killing each other or using each other. That was the truth. Maybe it didn’t even matter. 

“So I was selected by your people because they thought I’d be a good fuck, is that it?” He said, his voice flat, empty. _Your people,_ whoever the fuck they were. Sometimes Tommy lost track. Tatiana chuckled, low and brief and seductive. “That’s how Russians choose their soldiers, eh?”

“Would you be surprised?” 

“No,” Tommy said, caving, reaching for the cigs on the desk next to him. 

“They saw your record,” she said, evenly, if Tommy could go back in time and tell himself he would one day rue choosing to save thousands of lives, he would have laughed in his own face, but now- sometimes-, 

He snorted. 

“And that didn’t deter them?” he snapped, and Tatiana blinked. She didn’t make faces, kept her features mysterious. It didn’t matter. He could still read her, and she didn’t care. Didn’t care about the life, or the death, the only time her eyes flickered was when they were reflecting the glitter of diamonds. They were the same, in that way. They were maybe the same in a lot of ways. Tommy flicked his lighter. 

“What we are doing is the same,” she said, _the same,_ a practiced line. “What we must.” Her use of “we” amused him. Tommy didn’t respond. He took a drag, the smoke ticking slowly through his nose. 

“But instead of winning medals for bravery, you’ll be-,” 

She interrupted him with a loud sigh. 

“You believe we are enemies,” she said, waving an elegant hand. “Opposites.” She cocked her head like a gun. “But we are the same.” _Maybe the same in a lot of ways._ But Tatiana didn’t wake up, shivering and shaking, hearing his old Sergeant's voice, hearing shells drop. 

“So what happened to you?” he asked her, harshly, he couldn’t help it, it was what he did. She did not flinch, but her large eyes narrowed. 

“Did my uncle not tell you?” she asked, and Tommy just looked at her, kept his face blank. “Lost toes,” she scoffed, “Men.” 

“What happened?” he asked again, quieter. She pressed her lips together softly, blinking, like a doe. 

“You don’t have to pretend to care, here, Mr. Shelby,” she said, softly, almost a whisper, he opened his mouth, “You do not _have to care_ ,” she repeated, earnestly. _I know the truth._ He was exhausted, suddenly. He laid back against the pillows as he took another drag. Maybe it was a relief. Maybe that was- 

“You know,” he said, because if she thought she was getting to him, she would open up too, _we can use each other some more,_ maybe she _was_ fucking getting to him, the lines were blurry and crossed like their eyes. “Most women, they want to fuck me because they want to feel alive. Think I’m dangerous.” 

Tatiana reached for his smoke. “ _They_ are the ones with the low standards, then, no?” she asked, and wrapped her lips around the cigarette, Tommy had a sharp desire to replace it with his fingers. He took it as she handed it back, pretended not to notice the way she trailed her hand across his. He thought about her holding the gun to her temple. _No, I do not want to fucking try!_ He had shouted at her, _There is madness inside your head, too,_ he hadn’t wanted to try, he was afraid, afraid that the feeling that overwhelmed him if the barrel spun to an empty chamber would not be relief but regret. There it was. The truth. 

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said, and there it was again, that word, “No,” she replied, when was the last time someone had actually told him that, to his face? 

“What _are_ you scared of?” he asked, and she wouldn’t tell him, of course she wouldn’t tell him, it was a waste of breath. Tommy inhaled, worked his jaw. 

“What are _you_?” she asked, and he just blinked, but he was thinking, again, _the truth the truth the truth,_ like a heartbeat, the one he didn’t have. _We’re not those kind of men,_ his brother had said, 

“This is what you meant when you said “entertainment”, eh? Talking in circles?” Tommy asked, low enough to get her attention, deep enough to lock her stare. She smiled not like someone who had won, but someone who was tired of winning, someone who had stopped finding satisfaction in victory, who instead had been searching for an equal. Like someone who had found one. 

“Very impressive, Mr. Shelby,” she said, again, and he put his cigarette out. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The title means Madness of Two in French, and is also the name of the best album ever written.
> 
> I have FINALLY gotten my peaky blog going, I'm ways-to-fall on Tumblr, hit me up xoxo


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